A Twist in Time
by theanonymouslibrarians
Summary: A collection of oneshots where things go slightly differently in Moriarty (by Anthony Horowitz). SPoilers, so don't read if you're even partway through the book. Or unless you like the ending spoiled.


A Boswell

By theanonymouslibrians

Note: Don't own Sherlock Holmes, or Moriarty. I was saddened by the way Moriarty ended, and even more saddened by the fact that there's no fanfiction of the book. So, I'm making my own.

Deveraux stepped towards his coach, even as Jones tried to stop him, presumably hoping to delay the inevitable. Before Deveraux could even lift is foot onto the steps, though, two shots rang out. The driver slumped in the seat and Mortlake fell to the ground, blood running from a spot of his head. The horses whinnied and started running.

Deveraux and the surviving members of his gang turned towards the direction of the shots. I took advantage of the situation to leap towards the man nearest to me. I tackled him and bludgeoned him until I was sure he was unconscious, if not dead. Next to me, Jones had swung his walking stick around to face another man and another shot rang out, this one from the end of Jones's stick. He turned to face another of our captors, but someone was already drawing a blade across the man's throat.

It was Perry. I breathed a sigh of relief as Moran joined him. Returning my attention to Deveraux, I saw the man was running towards what I could only assume was an exit. I grabbed a rope from the body of one of the men and dashed after Deveraux. It didn't take me long to overtake him. But the man had spent his entire life indoors. I was no athlete, but I was still more fit than he was.

I wrestled him to the ground.

"Get the hell off me! If you-"

I slammed my fist into his face. He groaned and then laid still on the ground. I used the rope to hog tie him. He didn't put up any more resistance. It was…disappointing in a way. The man had brought my entire empire to the ground, forced me to take the most despicable actions I could imagine, and in the end…he was just a coward. Unable and unwilling to fight for his own life.

I got to my feet and made my way back to Moran, Perry, and Jones. They had dispatched of the last of our captors and were now standing, gazing at each other with apprehension. Perry armed with a knife, Moran with a gun, and Jones with only his walking stick. I assumed it had no shots left.

"Thank you." I said, dropping my fake accent. "Although, that was pretty close."

"We got here, didn' we?" Moran asked.

Jones eyes flickered from Perry, to Moran, and back to me, and I knew that by now he'd realized that, whoever I was, I was not a Pinkerton agent. His expression was one of uncertainty and betrayal. In less than a minute he'd gone from being about to die side-by-side with a friend to being…a prisoner of a stranger? A bystander? Would he even live long enough to find out?

Perry, sadistic little imp that he was, was looking at Jones with a hungry type of glee. "What about this one?" His thumb ran along the edge of his knife, despite the fact that it was covered in blood.

I studied Jones. As much as I'd enjoyed our friendship, I'd always known we'd need to part. Of course I'd hoped that I would be able to either disappear or maybe even "return" to American, still in the persona of Frederick Chase. I'd known, of course, that I might need to leave him in a less pleasant way and planned accordingly.

"We're taking him with us. Don't. Hurt. Him." I said, looking at Perry pointedly.

I hated to disappoint the boy, but he'd have lots of fun with Deveraux over the next few months. Initially I had planned to kill Jones if I had to. I still would if absolutely necessary. But, over time, I'd grown to like working with him. It was nice having a friend. When Jones had proposed a partnership, I had taken his idea into consideration. Not the way he had in mind, of course. The dynamics would have to change. He would be disappointed, I thought, to realize that I wasn't as in awe of his deductive abilities as I had pretended to be. Still, he could adjust. And he wasn't unintelligent; I could teach him more than his observation of Sherlock Holmes had.

I had always hoped to have someone like Doctor Watson to chronicle my exploits. Would Jones prove as adept a storyteller as Holmes's companion? I supposed I would soon find out.


End file.
